


Ásynjur

by bluebeholder



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Five Wives Week, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are people. The world will never forget their names.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frigg

_Frigg: First among the goddesses, the wife of Odin, she who knows the fates of all men._

She is the Splendid Angharad, the greatest treasure of the Citadel, the most beloved wife of the Immortan Joe. She walks in beauty, even in the filth of the Citadel. She is declared to be free, already riding in Valhalla, even as she is in chains. Her privilege is that of a queen. She knows this, and yet in her heart she wishes for something different. But it is not until four thousand and five hundred days have passed that she recognizes her true power.

As the Immortan’s favored wife, the Splendid Angharad must serve him when he goes before the people to show his immense power and deific majesty. She serves him a cup of aqua cola, with the appropriate amount of bowing and kneeling. But her duties do not end with service at a feast. It is her task to foretell the outcome of the Immortan’s raids. The War Boys gather in a chamber built for this purpose before each raid, chanting and writhing before their god. Angharad cuts open a vulture and reads the pattern of its inside-out body. Always, she foretells victory. Always, she proclaims that the Immortan will win the day. Always, she proclaims the inestimable power of V8. 

But one day Angharad cannot take it anymore. A caravan is passing through the Immortan’s territory and he is going forth to war. He speaks of guzzoline, of chrome treasures, of perhaps a new wife. And suddenly Angharad is enraged. When she is called forward to determine the fate of the raid, she brings her blade down on the vulture and stares for a silent moment at the blood. 

“Well, Splendid?” the Immortan asks at last.

“You are not in the favor of V8,” she says simply. “The raid will fail.”

Angharad knows that she will suffer dearly for this. But in this moment—the War Boys silenced, her words ringing through the room, the enraged Immortan reduced to impotent silence—she feels powerful. For the first time, she is the equal of the disgusting god crouching on his chrome throne. For now, Angharad knows that she has won this battle, though the raid will still succeed.

It fails. 

Later, when the wounds on her back still weep silent tears from the beating she received, the Imperator Furiosa stops her in the Vault. “Why?” the woman asks simply.

“I do not belong to him,” Angharad says.

Furiosa’s eyes narrow and her shoulders tighten. “Heresy,” she says.

“ _I do not belong to him_ ,” Angharad repeats.

She knows now that she is entirely his equal. And she would discard her privilege, her place in Valhalla, her beauty itself in order to attain real freedom. She will not be Splendid anymore. To be Splendid, to be a treasure of the Citadel, is to be a _thing_. She is a mother. She is a woman. She is a _person_. She is the equal of the Immortan Joe. And Angharad will _never_ allow herself to be treated as a thing again.


	2. Eir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of self-harm.

_Eir: The goddess who is the strongest in the healing arts._

From the first day she was brought into the Vault, she knew her place among her sisters. If Angharad is their leader, if Toast is their warrior, if the Dag is their jester, if Cheedo is their confidante, then Capable is their healer. When one of them is beaten, it is Capable who bandages them. When they are abused with words, it is Capable who soothes their hurts. 

Capable doesn’t mind her role, though Miss Giddy wants Capable to think of herself and stop doing things for other people. When Angharad sliced open her face with a razor, Capable is the one who talked her out of finishing the job on her wrists. She splinted Toast’s fingers when the angry woman broke them punching the Vault’s door. It had to be Capable who midwifed the birth of the Dag’s first child. Capable is the one who holds Cheedo when she cries for her family.

So when they run, although Capable is terrified, she goes along with a smile. This run, no matter how it ends, will heal her sisters. Capable thinks it might heal the Imperator as well. Furiosa is like one of the cars: her true self barely recognizable under all the blood and grit. But Capable sees, and understands. She wants Furiosa to have the chance to get out, just as she and her sisters are getting out. 

When she finds the War Boy slamming his head against the Rig, she can’t stop herself from wanting to heal him. He’s been hurt by Joe as deeply as she has, even if the War Boy doesn’t see it. Yet she thinks that this time her healing was a little selfish. Perhaps she doesn’t care. After all, she isn’t a thing. The help she gives is not a due to be paid. 

It turns out that Nux is an eager, sweet, even gentle boy. He is the first man to ever touch her in kindness. She _loves_ it. Her heart goes out to the kamikrazy War Boy with chrome fading on his mouth. She wants to heal him. She’s not sure if this is the love Miss Giddy told them about, but she wants it to be. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s the memory of Nux that drives her when they return to the Citadel. Over the others’ protests, Capable goes among the War Boys. If the sisters deserve to know that they are not things, the War Boys do too. She Witnesses Nux to them, explains why his death was different than all those that came before, tells them that they belong only to themselves and no one else. The War Boys hear her. Slowly, they come to her to be healed. 

When Capable finally watches them, of their own free will, tear down the altar of V8, her smile is real. For the first time in three thousand days, she finds herself _truly_ joyful.

Maybe, somewhere along the way, healing all these others helped her begin to heal herself.


	3. Sága

_Sága: The goddess whose name means “omniscience”._

They call her “the Knowing” because she is literate. Toast can quote more books than anyone but Miss Giddy. Her true knowledge, though, is about the real world. The Wasteland doesn’t terrify Toast. She gets it, even if the others don’t even seem to want to try.  
She knows what bullets go in which gun and how to put guzzoline in a car. She knows how to climb a cliff and how to survive a sandstorm. She knows why water in the desert is dangerous and why salt is sometimes safer. 

And that knowledge makes Toast _listen_. She eavesdrops on War Boy guards whenever she gets the chance, learning about things like guard rotations and how to fix a gun. She eavesdrops on the Immortan’s sons—who ignore her because she’s pretty—and learns about the secrets of Bullet Farm and Gas Town. She puts her ear to the ground and learns because _someday they are getting out of here_ and when that day comes Toast is going to be ready.

It is three thousand and four hundred days until that day comes.

When Angharad brings the Imperator Furiosa into their midst with a plan to run away, Toast is the only one excited. Capable cowers, Cheedo whimpers, the Dag hisses, Miss Giddy snarls. Toast just squares up to the Imperator and demands to know when they’re leaving.

The whole scheme was Angharad’s idea, but (and Toast thinks this with the utmost fondness) Angharad can’t plan her way out of an open boot. It’s Toast who sits down with Furiosa and rattles off who’s who on guard rotations. It’s Toast who repairs the illicit shotgun they’re leaving behind for Miss Giddy. It’s Toast who explains in painstaking detail to the others what they can expect if the Citadel decides to pursue them. 

Angharad corners her one night, just before they’re due to be smuggled into the War Rig. “How do you know this?” she asks. Her eyes are tight. _She’s afraid,_ Toast thinks with some shock.

“I listen,” Toast says. There’s not much else to say, except, “Help me cut my hair off.”

“What?” Angharad is shocked.

Toast shrugs. She knows how long hair and flowing clothes work in a big ol’ rig. Her scalp might get ripped off, she might be dragged under the wheels. So she’s going to ditch the flowing clothes and hack off her long hair. But there’s no use saying that to Angharad. The woman has the foresight to make a plan, but not the foresight to expect real trouble out of this. “I’m not Joe’s anymore,” Toast says instead, and Angharad looks delighted.

Toast knows that this is bad. She’s ready for trouble from the moment they climb into the War Rig. She knows they’ll be chased. Hunted. She might die. Yet she doesn’t care, because what she told Angharad is true. If there’s one thing that Toast _really_ knows, it’s that she doesn’t belong to Joe, and never did, and never will again.


	4. Gefjun

_Gefjun: A cunning goddess who ploughed the land._

She is _not_ mother material. The others, even furious Toast, carry their children with dignity. The Dag, on the other hand, hates parturiency. She is raveled up, a slave to this too-solid flesh, forced to bear fruit out of her own season like the twisted plum trees that grow on the Citadel’s terraces.

The Dag does not care when the Keeper of the Seeds talks about how the baby in her belly might be a girl. It will be a screaming, wrinkled mandrake like all the others. She won’t love it. 

But the Keeper of the Seeds shows the Dag her bag of seeds, and something about it sparks a jealous devotion in the Dag. She can’t keep her hands off the tattered packets. She sits long into the night whispering the names of the plants she finds in the satchel.

As they roar across the desert back to the Citadel, she chants the names to the tune of Toast’s music box. When she looks out the window, it seems as if the scorched earth is covered in a veil of bright green. A forest grows up around them until they are lost within it. Her friends are silent with fear, but the Dag is rapturous. 

Even as the fighting begins, she cannot leave the seeds behind. She feels greater affection for them than she feels for Joe’s stupid-schlanger sprout rooted inside her. The seeds must come back to the Citadel. 

They have to put things back together from the ground up, of course, and the Dag is not sure where she fits into it. Capable has War Boys, Toast has engineering projects, Cheedo has government, Furiosa has…well, no one’s sure what Furiosa has, but she seems happy. It’s only the Dag who hasn’t got a place. That, she thinks, is total smeg. 

One day she goes up to the terraces where the food is grown and walks among the plants. She knows their names by heart: millet, sorghum, chickpea, maize. It is a green place, but it feels…wrong. Raveled up in itself, in the steel and stone of the Citadel. When the Dag turns to look at the horizon she sees only empty scorched sand. She spits and stamps, struck with sudden rage, and storms down to find the satchel of seeds.

She takes water and fertilizer and carries it down to the foot of the Citadel. The soil is sour and dry. Her skin burns bright red, her shoulders blister, her fingernails crack. Splinters lodge themselves in her hands as she ploughs furrows in the sand, her feet are cut to ribbons on the rocks. But she tends the seeds. And as she works she finds that she is no longer trapped in her body, but living in it by her choice.

As plants spread out from the foot of the Citadel, they begin to call her greenthumb. For the first time in two thousand days, among a riotous host of plants, Dag understands what _freedom_ truly means.


	5. Snotra

_Snotra: A goddess who is wise and courtly._

She has been here for less than five hundred days when they run, and she doesn’t understand at first why they go. If the belts they wear are uncomfortable, don’t they have beautiful clothes? If they must live in isolation, don’t they have water and books? Cheedo remembers the Wasteland with none of Toast’s fondness. It was a horrible hard place. She doesn’t think she’d mind bearing children, unlike the Dag. Angharad’s belief that they’re brainwashed seems ridiculous to Cheedo. Capable thinks that Joe hurts them, but Cheedo disagrees. Joe has never hurt her. Indeed, Cheedo—the newest of the wives—is still a virgin.

But when they run, she goes along. She’s afraid—why, she doesn’t know—of staying behind alone. She climbs into the War Rig and hangs on through all the fire and blood and by the end of it all she knows why they call her _fragile_. She cried and wailed and tried to go back. None of Toast’s strength, none of Capable’s heart, none of the Dag’s vision, none of Angharad’s intellect. She is _weak_.

The Citadel must be rebuilt, and they tell Cheedo that she has to take part. “You are not a thing,” Capable says, eyes shining with belief, and Cheedo honestly has no idea why that’s good because she never minded belonging to Joe. He was fearsome, but never really hurt her. 

To satisfy her sisters, Cheedo takes part in government. Everyone is to have a voice now, but they need someone to keep order. She’s surprised when she discovers that she is actually good at it. She can keep her head when everyone is shouting. She doesn’t have trouble deciding who’s right and who’s wrong, or figuring out whose ideas are just silly. 

“Don’t you want to be in charge?” she asks Furiosa. The woman is thousands of days older than Cheedo. She more than deserves this place.

“No,” the former Imperator says. She smiles, a rare thing, and looks Cheedo in the eye. “I think you’re doing well enough on your own.”

It is Cheedo’s task to allot food and water, and she tries to do this with dignity and grace. All, she proclaims, will have equal shares. If one goes short, then all will go short. They are _people_ , not slaves, and she will recognize them as such.

Often, she feels inadequate next to her sisters. She doesn’t ride out to fight when Buzzards close on the Citadel like Toast and Furiosa. She hates gardening and all the aches and pains that come with Dag’s job. She doesn’t have the stomach for being a healer like Capable. She’d much rather argue with Bullet Farm and Gas Town about the price of water. 

But when she negotiates a deal with the Rock Riders for safe passage through the canyons, when she learns the Buzzard language so she can treat with them, when she establishes real prosperity and equality in the Citadel, Cheedo begins to realize that fragile _doesn’t_ mean weak.


	6. Freya

_Freya: The most beautiful and fertile of all the goddesses, and the greatest in the magical arts._

None of them have ever had names. No one ever called them anything but “wet nurses”, “milkers”, or other things. The red-haired woman, Capable, explains philosophy to them, but it makes about as much sense as a lake in the Wasteland. It’s the Imperator who makes sense to them, who simply tells them, “You’re free.”

It’s a clumsy process, picking names. They still think of themselves as one, and this idea of separating from each other is fearful indeed. But the little one, Cheedo, says they must. They call themselves by familiar words: Sweet, Soft, Kitten, Gentle, Dust. 

They still provide milk to the Citadel, because it is one of the greatest resources. But other women help now. They still care for the youngest children. But they are not forced to give up those children to the Immortan’s war bands. 

When the Dag gives birth to her baby, she does no more than name it “Mandrake” before she hands it over to Kitten. “It’s yours,” she says. “I don’t want it.”

They are used to being things, and even in this grand new order it is hard to see beyond being an object to be put aside and unnoticed. They attract stares, because they are well-fed and large, something that no other people in the Citadel are. But they go on about their lives, more and more used to living in the way that they choose. 

Sweet and Soft remain as they were, chief among the Milking Mothers. Kitten cares for Mandrake as if the baby were her own. Dust takes a seat on the Council. Gentle spends her time in the garages, watching over the youngest War Pups. 

They still cannot open the doors of the Citadel to all the Wretched, but the women go out among them sometimes and bring them food, aqua cola, mother’s milk. Dust goes with Cheedo on these missions of mercy, sometimes bringing back malnourished babies, feeding those who cannot feed themselves. One day, she convinces the other four to go with her when she and Cheedo leave the gates.

When the Wretched see them, they crowd around, silent as a salt flat. It is unnerving: usually, they shout and cry for the attention of the women. But today they stare.

“Why are you silent?” Dust asks a bony-faced woman with lesions from the sun.

“Because we have never seen so many who are so beautiful at once,” the woman whispers, and reaches out to touch her tanned fingertips to Dust’s pale skin.

The Wretched don’t clamor today, but whisper to each other and look at the Mothers with wide eyes. When supplies have been distributed and they are back inside the Citadel, the Mothers can do nothing but stare at each other for a moment.

“Beautiful,” Kitten says, testing out the word. 

“What does it mean?” Gentle asks. 

Soft frowns. “Isn’t that like chrome?” she says. “Just a pretty thing?”

Sweet shakes her head. “Not pretty things,” she says. “We are beautiful _people_.”


	7. Syn

_Syn: The goddess who guards the doors of the hall, and closes it against enemies._

She was here for long and long and she will be here longer still, she suspects. She was never a wife, for in the old days she was valuable to Joe for her words. She is a History Woman, the words out of the far past tattooed on her skin. Once, Joe listened to her counsel and did as she said. But now she is a glorified nursemaid, and until _they_ come Miss Giddy believes that her task will never be anything more.

Always she does her best to shield the girls. She tries to bar the door against their god, and when she cannot bar the door she speaks out loudly against Joe. In the eyes of the Citadel, she is sacred, and so she cannot be harmed. She shouts until her voice goes hoarse, and when she can no longer speak she guards the girls by teaching. 

Miss Giddy tells them all the old secrets, tries to make them understand that there is another way. But none of the wives ever want to listen. Miss Giddy cannot protect them, in mind or in body.

Angharad is the first to listen to the old wisdom. “There is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind,” she quotes, holding up a book, and a spark of something unfamiliar leaps up in the History Woman’s heart.

Gentle Capable coaxes the spark into a flame. “I am a free human being, with an independent will,” she reads aloud to Miss Giddy one night, a strange light in her eyes. 

Miss Giddy at first despairs of Toast. The woman seems to be ignoring all the History Woman says, until one night she presents them with a stolen shotgun and says, with a shrug, “Freedom lies in being bold.” Those words add fuel to the fire and Miss Giddy thinks her skin will burn like paper. 

The Dag shivers like a mirage and quietly goes about her business. Yet it is she that throws guzzoline onto the fire. It is she who defies Joe’s orders and, lying bruised on her bed, smiles and whispers to Miss Giddy, “Disobedience is the true foundation of liberty.”

Imperator Furiosa has already begun to set the scheme of running into place when Cheedo arrives at the Citadel. Miss Giddy tries to cram as much education as she can into the girl before she leaves, and thinks she has failed until the morning of the flight. Cheedo turns around and says with a quiver in her voice and tears in her eyes, “Those who surrender freedom for security will not have, nor do they deserve, either one.”

So Miss Giddy remains behind. She knows that the women will go on knowing the history long and long after she is gone. She takes up the shotgun in her trembling old hands. Her survival doesn’t matter. She loves those firebrands, those free women, and Miss Giddy will give her life to protect them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes come from Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Bronte, Robert Frost, Henry David Thoreau, and Benjamin Franklin.


	8. The Norns

_The Norns: Goddesses who determine the fates of all men and cast judgment upon mortals._

Once they were weavers. Once they were builders. Once they were gardeners. Now they are sharpshooters. Now they are reavers. Now they are nomads. They cannot grow things because the blood on their hands kills the plants. So they ride in the Wasteland, tearing through the sand, praying for the day that they might find their redemption.

Once they were many. But the young grew old, and the old faded away, and then became only dried-up bones. They keep the Green Place alive in their stories, because that was where they came from. A plant never forgets its roots. Their new children scattered, seeds on the wind. They blew far and never came back. Many women left and the men who loved them left too. With them went the children. Somehow, those who remained can never make themselves go.

And so, roots dried up in the sun, the Vuvalini tell the stories. Of the magic time—the onceuponatime when the whole world was green, the onceuponatime when no one needed to bleed, the onceuponatime when there was water stretching as far as the seas of sand—the before time. They tell each other stories of the lost, the dead and the gone. They never know where the gone went, but perhaps they’re happier somewhere else. 

But their favorite stories are the stories of the future. They are women one and all now, past the age of bearing children, and some say that they have no future. But the Vuvalini disagree. Their future is one where the world is green again, where they can plant seeds and never fear that the blood they spill will kill them. Their future is one where they don’t have to hunt for water, but can drink it from the plenty that is everywhere. Their future is not one of children, but they will build their future anyway.

Furiosa’s return is a welcome shock. They never told this story, but that night they begin to whisper of the return of others in the future. The stories grow and sprout up and flower around them, and for a moment the whole world is nothing but green.

They go with Furiosa to the Citadel. It’s not because they trust that Wasteland feral or that odd painted War Boy. It’s not because Furiosa is one of their own. It’s not to protect the unborn children the young women may still carry. They go back, berserk rage and tens of thousands of days of pain driving them, because _this_ is their future. 

Their futures were taken from them when they were still young, younger than these fragile Citadel girls. Their futures should have been green, but instead this Wasteland is what they had. The Vuvalini have told their stories for too long to let their futures go now. For too long, they have let their stories be no more than fiction. Now they will prove their stories prophecy, and build the future they should have had for all their lives.


	9. Valkyries

_Valkyries: The choosers of the slain, who select those who will live and die in battle._

Everyone in the Wasteland has secrets. Valkyrie’s is no worse than most. But she nurtures it carefully in the shadows of her heart and never speaks of it, for the other women would find it strange that her deepest desire is to die with the light of war in her eyes.

Around the campfire, they tell her about the War Boys. About the way they charge into battle, craving only a glorious death. She says nothing, because to speak would be to betray herself. She thinks Furiosa saw, though, and turns her face away before anything can be said. 

The night is cold on the dunes. The endless salt flats below echo with weird howls, but Valkyrie knows it is only the wind. The Citadel women shiver and cling to their blankets. Despite the cold, the fugitives slip one by one into the quiet wastes of sleep and Valkyrie is left awake. She climbs to the top of Furiosa’s War Rig and sits on the tank, watching for trouble. Her hair whips freely in the wind, but she ignores it, and thinks of the ignominy of this journey across the salt.

She’s startled by footsteps behind her, and would turn but for Furiosa’s quiet voice. “Only me,” the lost woman says.

Valkyrie feels Furiosa settle behind her, the warmth close to her back. “You’re the only one awake?” she asks.

“The men are on watch,” Furiosa replies.

“You trust them that much,” Valkyrie says in disbelief. Aren’t they all _running_ from men?

Furiosa chuckles darkly. “No. You’re awake, aren’t you?” 

And that’s that, and it’s true, and Valkyrie smiles and leans back against her lost friend. It feels good to be so close, even after so long, and Valkyrie is somehow not surprised when Furiosa begins to card her fingers gently through Valkyrie’s long hair. She used to do this when they were children.

“Why did you cut yours?” Valkyrie murmurs.

Furiosa’s hand stills, and then moves again. “I was a War Boy,” she says with black finality. 

Valkyrie doesn’t say anything more, only stares up at the stars as she has not for more than seven thousand days when she killed her first man.

“If you die,” Furiosa says suddenly, and pauses. 

Her throat closes up. Furiosa saw it, after all. “I don’t want to die,” Valkyrie says aloud. The wind rips her words away and throws them out into the blank emptiness of the salt. 

Furiosa’s cheek presses against Valkyrie’s hair. “No one out here does.” Her voice cracks quietly, a gentle anguish that makes Valkyrie ache. “But if you die. Do it _right_.”

Valkyrie sits up and turns. She reaches out to cup the back of Furiosa’s close-shaven head in her palm. Her friend’s face is grim, and engine grease still streaks the corners of her eyes. Valkyrie knocks her forehead gently against Furiosa’s, rubbing circles against the back of the other woman’s head. “I’ll fight until they’re all dead,” she says. “They’ll never hurt you again.”


	10. Skadi

_Skadi: A great huntress and a warrior who stands beside the gods, but is not one of them._

She’s nothing like the sisters. She doesn’t belong in the upper tiers, where the gods walk the earth. She’s nothing like the War Boys. She doesn’t belong in the Pits, where dead men go to die.

“You’re an Imperator,” Cheedo says stiffly. 

“At least you haven’t got a schlanger,” the Dag says cheerfully.

“You’re Furiosa,” Toast says.

“You can be whatever you want,” Capable says.

Furiosa still has no idea who she is.

She’s still angry at Max. The Fool left her behind, even though there was something green growing between them. He went back to the Wasteland, back to the sand and the crows where Furiosa doesn’t belong, and left her here in the Citadel where she is supposed to belong. Yet those days on the Rig with the Fool and the sisters changed her so much that she no longer belongs here at the Citadel, either. It enrages her. 

Some part of her still longs to ride out, chrome-mouthed and reaching for the sun, because that was easier. But she was never happy doing that either, and she can’t do it anymore anyway.

As the women of the Citadel build new lives, Furiosa still can’t find her way. She encourages the Council to compromise, but she never knows what to say about important things. She leads the War Boys out to defend the Citadel, but off the field they no longer treat her as their Imperator. Furiosa realize, to her deep shock, that she’s lonely. She doesn’t belong here anymore, and maybe never did. 

She takes food and stores it in a car that no one else wants. She fills boxes with bullets, straps canisters of water into the backseat. Medical supplies, tools, spare clothes, all sit beside her. She’ll seek out whatever she’s lost on the Fury Road. 

She thought she was secretive, but on the morning she departs, Furiosa finds the sisters by the car. Before she can speak, Cheedo cuts in. “You can’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“Take it,” Toast says roughly, and Furiosa finds Toast’s own wheel in her hand. The small woman scowls back tears, and Furiosa slaps her shoulder.

Capable ties a red scarf around Furiosa’s neck and kisses her cheek. “Stay safe,” she says. All Furiosa can do is press her forehead against the woman’s.

“Plant ’em somewhere good,” the Dag says brusquely, shoving a satchel of seeds at Furiosa. She smiles when Furiosa takes it.

Abruptly Cheedo loses her regal restraint and flings her arms around Furiosa. “Please come back someday,” she cries. Furiosa rubs her shoulders in silence.

“You’re one of us,” Capable says, mouth wobbling. 

The Dag shrugs. “You’re our sister.”

“Yeah,” Toast says.

Furiosa lets go of Cheedo and surveys the women. She nods, not trusting herself to speak, and performs the Vuvalini gesture of goodbye. They do the same. 

Then Furiosa drives away. She glances back once, when the Citadel is just a shadowy mirage behind her, and thinks, _I’ll belong with them someday._

_My sisters._

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Five Wives Appreciation Week on Tumblr. "Ásynjur" is the collective name for the female deities of the Old Norse pantheon.


End file.
